Shadow Puppets
by shersocks
Summary: After months of being unable to capture the Ripper, Jack calls Sherlock and John over to help solve the crime. Unfortunately, the gruesome nature of one of the crime scenes triggers John's PTSD. John goes to Hannibal for help, and Hannibal helps John quell his PTSD, and lust to kill. Soon, A new killer starts working along side the Ripper. SH and Will hardly keep up. (M for gore.)
1. Prologue: Part 1

_Pack your bags, John. _

_-SH_

_What? Why?_

_-JW_

_New case. Serial killer. My favorite. _

_-SH_

_But where? _

_-JW_

_United States of America. Special request from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. _

_-SH_

_I'll be home soon. _

_-JW_

_Good. _

_-SH_

The consulting detective sat motionless in the leather armchair of 221B Baker Street. The afternoon light seeped through the window, illuminating a few tiny specks of dust. It was completely silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the mantle. Sherlock blinked. He heard a car door shut outside. John, obviously. He heard the door slide open and didn't lift his eyes from the page he was on.

"Better hurry, John," Sherlock called.

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm hurrying," he muttered, already climbing up the stairs to his bedroom.

He emptied his drawers of clothes and folded them quickly. He was ready about half an hour later. Sherlock had already hailed a cab and was pacing impatiently.

"Someone's excited," John said dryly.

Sherlock scoffed. "Well, yes, it is a serial killer after all. This case is different than all the other killers I've seen before. Whoever this killer is, he doesn't leave behind a hint that could be used to track them as well as the fact that he extracts the organs and presumably sells them on the black market," he said, already debating between a few possible theories.

John settled back in the seat of the cab. "Erm-that's pleasant. But why do they want you?" John queried.

"Well obviously they can't solve it and it seems as though this killer, who they have christened as the 'Chesapeake Ripper' is on a killing spree. Apparently this killer is now maiming the corpses. Why am _I_ going you ask? For one, I've never been contacted by the FBI, so I find this rather engaging, and two, this case is interesting. Very interesting. I only concern myself with intriguing cases. You should know that by now, John," Sherlock continued, nudging John.

They rode the rest of the way to the airport in silence.

John tried to catch up to Sherlock's longs strides as they entered the crowded airport.

John's eyes scanned the various suitcases and bored looking people standing in the queue. Sherlock huffed as a scrawny man in a suit pushed past them. John rolled his eyes. "It's an airport, Sherlock, what did you expect?"

Sherlock remained silent as they made their way to the security checkpoints. John checked his watch. "We'll be in line for a while, it seems," John sighed, observing the large amount of people ahead of them.

"Passport?" the exasperated man said gruffly half an hour later. He held out his hand to John and Sherlock after they had moved through the sluggish security checkpoint. John's was stamped and he moved ahead. The man squinted at Sherlock's passport. He swallowed.

"Are you- are you really Sherlock Holmes? The detective?" the man inquired, looking hopefully up at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously I am if this is my passport," he sneered.

John frowned at Sherlock as he rejoined John with an emotionless composure.

They were immediately chauffeured to the terminal and onto the plane.

They arrived in Virginia about eight hours later.

The duo sat in Head of the Department of Behavioral Science: Jack Crawford's office.

"My name is Jack Crawford and I'll be the overseer of this investigation," Jack said, shaking their hands. (okay so let's do a deduction of Jack Crawford)

He sat down at the desk.

"Tea? Coffee?" he offered them.

He received a call from the secretary a few seconds later. "Please excuse me. This is an important call. Hold on, I'll be back." he said, shutting the door behind him.

Jack Crawford came in with another, weary looking man a few minutes later.

"Meet Special Agent Will Graham. He's our criminal profiler for this case," Jack said, stepping back.

Sherlock surveyed Will.

He had a face that constantly appeared troubled.

He observed as the man fiddled with his glasses. Will gave off a soft aura of innocence.

Sherlock immediately gathered that this man had seen more than just a few crime scenes. He'd faced several traumatic events and was deeply scarred by them. Receiving counseling, obviously. Sane? For the most part.

Will put out his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock complied. "Hello, I'm Will Graham. I hear we'll be working together," Will said.

"Pleased to meet you Mr. Graham," Sherlock said, studying his expression.

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's slightly surprised expression. Will shook John's hand as well.

"Doctor Watson. I see you're an army man," Will remarked.


	2. Prologue: Part 2

_/I carefully wrap my gloved fingers around the end of the bat. I silently swing the bat down upon Mrs. Lee's head. She's not bleeding. She falls in the community pool, face up. I drag her out and place her on the cement. She blinks, in a daze. I take the small end of the bat and shove it down her throat. Her eyes widen in fear, and her heartbeat speeds up considerably. I shove the bat down harder, and she lets out a strangled scream. She is unable to move out of terror, and shock. I cut open her chest with a scalpel, and break her sternum in half, using the scalpel and the bat as a hammer and chisel. I keep the bent and broken scalpel in hand.I bend back the left side of her rib cage until it snaps. I take her still-beating heart in my hand, and show it to her. "This is your heart," I whisper. "I'm going to kill you." I take my scalpel and sever her aorta. She dies in a matter of seconds. I walk away with her heart, and leave the bat in her throat. This is my design./ _

"What do you see, Will?," Jack asked, stepping closer to the Special Agent.

"This is definitely the Ripper," Will responded shakily. "He showed her her own beating heart."

Jack shook his head. "What a place to kill someone. He killed the pool worker just after all the other staff had left. How low can a person get?"

"Low enough to rip someone's heart out and show it to them, apparently."

Jack looked up from the body to Will. "Why did you feel the need to bring Doctor Bloom?"

"She came by herself. I told you."

Alana walked over to them in a few even strides. "I must agree with Will. The killer seems to know what he's doing." Alana glanced at Will and brushed her bangs out of her face. "Jack, Will should take a break from the crime scenes. He's getting worn out."

Jack nodded. "That reminds me, Will. The F.B.I. has asked a detective from England to come and assist you with these crimes."

"Who would that be?" Will asked, glowering at Jack.

"A Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Jack replied.

Will scoffed. " What does the F.B.I. need with a novice like him?"

Jack put a hand on Will's back and ushered him over to a car. "Sherlock and his... partner should be here soon. We'll meet them in the office. Now hop in the car."

Will silently complied. He sat in the back and blankly stared out the window for the duration of the ride.

Jack wondered whether Will would be alright in the end. He quickly banished the thought; of course Will would be fine. He was Will Graham after all.

They soon arrived back at the office. Jack asked his secretary if their guests were there yet. She shook her head.

"Would you like to wait for them in my office?" Jack asked.

"Actually, if you wouldn't mind, I'd rather stay in here until they arrive."

Jack nodded, and walked into his office.

Will sat in a chair near the secretary's desk. He awkwardly glanced at her, then looked down at the floor. God, was he tired. He proceeded to stare at the floor for the next few minutes.

Soon, Jack re-entered and called Will over. "They're here."

Will stood and exited the room. Standing in front of him was the man he'd seen on T.V. numerous times. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was much taller than Will had thought. Sherlock gave Will a once-over and grunted. Standing a little too closely next to Sherlock was a short blonde that Will recognized as John Watson, Sherlock's so-called partner.

He held out his hand. "Hello, I'm Will Graham. I hear we'll be working together." Will chanced a glance at Sherlock's eyes, just to get the color. They were strikingly blue, and contrasted greatly with the color of his hair.

Will passed a glance at John. The blonde had perfect posture; it looked as though he was used to being in charge of situations. The premature wrinkles that decorated his face hinted at a great stress in the past. The way John held himself gave him an air of militancy. He shook John's hand and said, "Doctor Watson, I see you're an army man."

John seemed a little shocked that someone other than Sherlock could tell something like that. He coughed in response and glanced at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and chuckled quietly. Sherlock's gaze fell back on Will, and his smile dissolved.

Will couldn't tell if something was wrong with Sherlock, or if something was incredibly right.


	3. Chapter 1

Sherlock, John, Hannibal and Will stood crowded around the woman in the bag in the bag.

Sherlock gently nudged Will off to the side. "I need a look."

Will nodded and stepped back with Hannibal.

Middle-aged woman of Asian descent. He observed the blood matted in her hair and the clean cut across her chest. The woman's esophagus was completely wrecked, and her throat was torn open.

"Missing an organ?" Sherlock said, looking at Will.

"See for yourself," Will said tiredly. Sherlock beckoned to John.

John opened the chest cavity with his gloved hands and frowned. "She's... she's missing her heart," John said quietly. He gently felt her abdomen.

"Broken ribs as well," he commented, furrowing his brow again. "This is odd. This Ripper or whatever you call him is not stupid. He's a man who's surgically talented. The laceration on her chest was not crudely made, it was made neatly with a medical scalpel. Whoever it is, he knows exactly where each organ is located and exactly where to make cuts. We're dealing with someone very serious," John said, taking off his gloves, and crossing his arms.

He moved to her bloody face and winced. "Something was forcibly shoved down her throat."

Sherlock was examining other parts of her body. He looked at her scalp. Splinters.

"She has small splinters on her hand. Assumably she fought back against her attacker, and her attacker must have used something wooden," Sherlock said staring off into the distance.

"It was a wooden bat," Will said. "He suffocated her with the small end of a wooden bat."

Sherlock turned to Will. "Did you discover her near a swimming pool?"

Will nodded. "She received head trauma, and fell into the pool. Her hair was still damp when we found her."

"Blood in the pool, I presume?" Sherlock inquired.

"Surprisingly, no. She was simply hit hard enough to stun her. She wasn't hit hard enough to draw blood."

Sherlock stepped back. "I'm finished with my analysis."

"What have you found?" Hannibal asked.

"She was hit on the head to disorient her and then suffocated with a baseball bat while semi-conscious last night and had her heart removed. Most likely a man, based on how he cut, and the strength it requires to break bone. Severed aorta, and broken ribs. Clearly done by a man in the medical field, experience with open heart surgery and nimble with his fingers. Has probably been a surgeon for at least five years. Probably has a job where he meets a lot of people, and that's how he chooses. She knows him from his work. She could be a colleague, a customer, or a solicitor of the business he works at," Sherlock said, slipping off his gloves and tossing them into the trash bin.

Hannibal watched as Sherlock left the room with John in tow. He was rather impressed that Sherlock was able to figure that much out, just by looking at Mrs. Lee for a few minutes.

He was also terrified. Sherlock knew so much about the killer, and every piece of evidence he had discovered pointed to Hannibal. Hannibal, of course, didn't show his fear. That would be suspicious, and he knew it. He merely remarked to Will about how impressive the Consulting Detective was, and exited the room. Will followed closely behind.

XxXxXxX

Enrique Mall's body was sitting upright in an armchair. He was holding a newspaper in his hands. Or, it would be, if it had hands at the end of it's arms. Instead, someone had cut off his hands and replaced them with his feet. His hands were where his feet formerly were. His stomach had been torn open, and inside sat his eyes. On the wall behind him, presumably written in Enrique's own blood, was "Transformation Complete."

John almost vomited when he saw the appalling sight before him. What was wrong with him? He was a doctor, let alone an army doctor.. He'd seen worse. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to make it through this.

Upon closer inspection of the body, John was immediately transported back to his time in the army.

/_In front of him was his best friend. His knife, and his hand, were about a yard away from his body. His arm has been shot off. _

_"John," his friend rasped. "John, John, come. Help me. Why can't I feel my arm? Why can't I feel it? I'm so thirsty, John. I feel like I haven't had anything to drink for ages, John." The man reached his good arm out to John. "Please help..." He trailed off, and dropped his uninjured arm._

_ John wiped the blood off of his friend's face and buried his head in the dead man's chest. "I'm sorry, so sorry..." /_

And then John was back in Mr. Mall's room.

He felt weak to his knees and grabbed the wall to steady himself. Sherlock was already examining the body along with Will. John shook his head furiously. He wouldn't be able to go through this. Not now.

"Sherlock?" he croaked out weakly.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock responded, preoccupied.

"I- I'm going to leave. I don't think I can handle this," he said weakly.

Sherlock frowned. "You've always been able to make it. Is something wrong? What happened?" he said , still examining the body.

"I'm fine," John said. "I just need to be out of here."

Sherlock glanced at John and nodded to him before turning back to the body.

John stepped out into cool fall air. He gasped for breath and slid down against the wall. John sighed. He'd need a therapist. The flashbacks were supposed to stop. He had been having far too many of these lately. He didn't care who it was, he just needed a psychiatrist.

He recalled that Dr. Lecter was a psychiatrist. Maybe he should go to him.

XxXxXxX

John took a deep breath and knocked on Doctor Lecter's door.

It was only a moment before the door swung open. "Ah, hello Doctor Watson. Pleased to see you could make it. I do not usually have patients make appointments so late. I would have expected at least a two day's advanced warning. Please, come in."

John stepped in to Dr. Lecter's office and cleared his throat. "I'm-I'm sorry. It's just that it was something urgent. I've never experienced a flashback so vivid." John said. "I had to get out and talk to someone."

"Then I'm glad you came for help. What triggered you, John?"

John observed Hannibal's relaxed posture. He looked around the room and noted the many medical degrees hanging on the wall. Hannibal's accent was a bit strange, but John felt as comfortable as he could without knowing Hannibal very well.

"The body. It was maimed beyond recognition and the limbs were... displaced and mutilated. I couldn't take it. I've seen some pretty bad injuries, because I'm an army doctor, but I've never been triggered like this. It was just a feeling so overpowering that..." he trailed off, and looked

at the ground.

"I see. This sort of thing is very common among veterans." Hannibal leaned forward. "Do you think you may need medication?"

"No. I don't want medicine. I just want to- to talk to someone about it. I've never been able to do that properly," John said shakily. "I keep being reminded of all times I've had to shoot someone. All the times I've... killed someone. And the worst part is..." John tried to say more but nothing came out.

"You liked it?"

John nodded a few seconds later. "Am I going insane?" he said almost inaudibly.

"No, John. You've experienced traumatic things because of the war. Am I correct in assuming you have P.T.S.D?"

"Yes," John said quietly, putting his head in his hands.

"The flashback is merely a result of your anxiety disorder. The fact that you enjoyed killing those people is common. You were in wartime. You were defending yourself. You did something taboo with no consequences. It's normal to feel a rush." Hannibal walked over to his bookshelf and stared at the spines. "Completely normal..."

John swallowed. "Are you telling me that it's _normal_ for me to enjoy killing people? To crave more of it? Doctor Lecter please... please help me," John said, breaking off.

Hannibal stood up. "John, I think it would benefit you to go big game hunting. You would be able to get the thrill of killing, but without actually hurting anyone. Maybe you should work on getting a hunting license."

` "I- I'm not sure, Doctor Lecter."

"Please, John, call me Hannibal. I believe that we are on a first name basis, are we not?

"I'm not sure I could hunt, Hannibal."

Hannibal put his hand on John's shoulder. "I will go with you, if you like. I believe this to be the best course of action. The best therapy, if you will."

"I think I'd like to schedule a few more appointments with you, if that's all right. I may need quite a few," John said, looking up at Hannibal.

"That is fine. Feel free to stop by any time."

"Thank you, Hannibal," John said, standing.

Hannibal walked John to the door. "I'm free this weekend, if you'd like to come for dinner, or go hunting. Please, tell me if you need to talk."

"I think I might take you up on your offer of dinner. Thank you again," John said as he slid his hands in his pockets, and walked out the door.

**AN: This chapter? Short. Know what else this chapter is? Updated. My partner and I re worked this a bit, so hopefully it's better. **


	4. Chapter 2

Sherlock, who had yet to leave the crime scene, glanced at the kitchen table . He saw a license and car keys.

"Obviously not a rich man, judging by the car keys."

Will stood in the doorway. "Can you be quiet, please? I need a moment. I would appreciate it if you could leave the room." He rolled his head, cracking his neck.

"What? Why should I leave? I need to analyze the victim!" Sherlock said indignantly.

Will turned to face sherlock. He did everything he could to avoid Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock, if we're going to be working together, I need you to let me do this. Five minutes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. Hurry," he said, turning on his heel and exiting the room.

Will turned back and walked outside of the old and rundown home. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

_I walk from my car, and knock on Enrique Mall's door. I wait, and soon hear shuffling steps. The unoiled door creaks open, and Enrique smiles. He clappes me on the back, and welcomes me inside. We make small talk, and he then asks why I am here. I tell him I am here for the money he owes me and my associates. His face falls, and he sits in his chair. He tells me that he is very sorry, but he has been unable to find any finances. I sigh, and walk into the kitchen. I find the knife drawer, and pick up the largest knife Enrique has in his house. I walk back into the room with the knife in full view. Enrique does not scream, or make a move to escape. He simply sits, and waits for me to kill him. I tell him that it will not be that easy. I hold him down, and cut off his hand, using the knife as a guillotine. I do the same with his other hand, and his feet. Enrique screams with each slice of my knife. He's blubbering like a baby with the pain. As soon as I finish with his hands and feet, I reach for his eyes. I tell him that he should have given me the money. I sink my fingers behind his eyes, and pull. There is a sharp tearing noise as I pull his eyes from his sockets, disconnecting his vision; pulling nerves from his brain. I then slice open his midsection, and place his eyes on his intestines. He is bleeding. I tell him that he will soon be dead. He screams. When he passes out from the pain, I take his blood and smear words onto the wall. I then slap him awake, and proceed to sew his hands onto where his feet should be, and vice versa. He is in pure agony. He dies before I leave. this is my design._

Sherlock stood impatiently outside the door, wondering why he even stated Will by leaving the room. He was just about to go back in when Will stepped out. "Whoever killed that man did it because Mr. Mall owed him money. That I know."

Sherlock scoffed. "And how would you know that? Just a silly guess of yours?"

Will sighed. "I thought Jack might have told you. Listen, if you're going to be working with me, there's something you need to know. I can get into killer's heads; I can think like they think. I know what they're doing, and why. I have much greater empathy than normal people. Maybe I picked up yours."

Sherlock tsked at the remark."Basically you can put yourself into killers' mindsets? And that makes you 'a highly qualified criminal profiler?"

Will nodded. He really didn't like explaining his expertise to people; especially those well-versed in crime. He didn't understand why anyone thought that he needed help with this. He disliked Sherlock's high-and-mighty attitude. He sighed.

Sherlock smirked snidely at Will, and laughed inwardly. This was who they considered 'highly qualified'? Obviously they hadn't seen a deduction before. He sauntered past Will and walked over to the body without another word. "Listening, Will?" he called. "This is what a real deduction looks like. We can get real, usable information from this," he said, kneeling near the man's shoes.

"Worn out soles. Further reinforces the fact that this man is quite poor. If the state of his house didn't tell you that. Jean cuffs are frayed and still damp, proving that he walked home tonight. Presumably our killer followed him to his home. Crack addict as he still has traces of it on his fingers. No attachment, no girlfriend or parents. Turned to drugs for comfort from his depression-"

"As I said, he didn't have the money. He was unable to pay for his drugs."

"I'd appreciate if you don't interrupt my deductions." Sherlock snapped. He was slightly aggravated now. "Killer is middle-aged, male, judging by the prints he left outside. Probably not the first time he's done this. Owns a gun and was in fact wielding it against the man, judging by the victim's prints that he left on the floor while walking backward into the chair. Mentally unstable as the degree of effort he's put into switching the limbs shows that he gets some sort of deranged pleasure out of this. No hesitation in the way he's made his cuts. Suspect is homeless. No connection whatsoever between victim and suspect, just a random victim."

"You're wrong, Sherlock. The killer knew Mr. Mall. This was no random accident. Mr. Mall couldn't pay for his drugs, so they sent some deranged psychopath to murder him."

"I'm never wrong." Sherlock hissed. He paused, and looked at the body again. Something about Mr. Mall's face told Sherlock that the dead man knew his killer. He sighed in contempt. Maybe Will was correct. "I suppose so," he admitted reluctantly.

"Now we have to figure out where Mr. Mall was getting his drugs," Will sighed.

"I would've thought it was obvious. Look at the granules. They're not fine, they're coarse. Which means it's the type one can acquire from someone inexperienced. Most likely someone at a university. Probably from an acquaintance there," Sherlock said.

"This man is in his late twenties, early thirties. Don't you think he would have been out of college by now? If he hadn't dropped out, that is."

"Fine. You analyze. 'Hardcore' crack dealers do not sell such coarse granules. It has to be homemade. So maybe not from a university, but from someone he knew well and frequently smoked with," Sherlock stated, crossing his arms and facing Will.

"We should probably interview some co-workers, or family, then."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'll go. You may stay here. I don't think I need incompetent fools working with me," he sniffed.

"Excuse me, Sherlock. I have to be on this case. Without me you wouldn't have known that Mr. Mall knew his killer. I am anything but an 'incompetent fool.'"

"Oh, don't try to get cocky with me. You're hardly anything special."

Will huffed, and walked past Sherlock, purposefully bumping into Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm coming with you, Sherlock. I'm on this case, too."

"Then don't ever interject during my deductions with one of your unimportant pieces of information. I already have enough stupidity punctuating my days at the Yard."

"Let's go, Sherlock." Will grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, as if to drag him out the door. "We gotta get going."

Sherlock yanked his arm free of Will's grasp. "Just who do you think you are, Mr. Graham? You think you're something special because you've seen a lot of things? Well, you're not. At all." Sherlock straightened himself to his full six feet, one inch. He wasn't too much taller than Will, but he stood just close enough that the extra two inches allowed Sherlock to literally look down at will. He glared at Will, trying to intimidate his partner. He swiftly turned around; purposely walked ahead of Will, annoyed by his presence. He walked just slow enough to annoy the hell out of Will.

Will gritted his teeth. He couldn't yell at Sherlock, who seemed to have taken control of the entire case. Will felt that Sherlock needed to cease and desist, but there was nothing he could do. Yet. He would talk to Jack about it later.

Sherlock shook his head. John was so much more competent than this imbecile. He'd have to find out what was wrong with John so he could have him back for the next part of this case.

"Before you get hissy, just know that we've been paired for this case. Neither of us are getting out of it, so I suggest you try to cooperate with me," Will said, just about stepping on Sherlock's heels.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again; I work alone or with competent partners like Doctor Watson. Become capable and I'll accept you as so," he said.

"You're far too stubborn, Sherlock. I am one of the most competent agents the F.B.I has."

Sherlock laughed to himself. "The F.B.I. must not have a lot to choose from, then," he said snidely.

Will grunted. "Just get in the car and shut up. Don't you think you might need to find your boyfriend? He's not here."

"I do not have a 'boyfriend.' I am currently married to my work."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed that you and John were a thing, with how close he was standing to you. I just figured."

"We are not a couple." Sherlock said, almost too calmly. "You shouldn't be so fast to make assumptions. After all, I could assume that you and your psychiatrist, Doctor Lecter, are romantically involved,"

"Well, we're not. He's just a friend that helps me deal with my demons. Let it be."

"A very close friend, I'm sure," he smirked.

Will shook his head in irritation. Sherlock was incredibly boorish. Will wasn't sure how anyone could stand the man. He was too tall, and trying too hard to seem cool, with his popped collar and scarf.

XxXxXxX

"You don't understand, Jack. I absolutely cannot stand Sherlock," Will said, slamming a hand on Jack's desk. "He's too... just make him go away."

Jack folded his hands, and placed them on the desk. "Will, you know I can't do that. Why don't you and Sherlock take a day to get to know each other better?"

"That's an awful idea."

"Well, too bad. I need you and Sherlock to work together, and solve this crime. I can't have my two best chances at catching the ripper not work together at all. I need your attention to be on solving this case. You need to focus on this, and pretty much this alone. And you have to work with Sherlock. Take a day, or think of some other way to get to know him better."

Will tossed his head back in resignation. This was probably the most annoying thing that had ever happened to him. He would need to go find Sherlock and fill him in on what Jack had said. He opened the door of Jack's office, and practically ran into Sherlock.

"Why the hell are you here?" Will asked

"I was going to ask Jack if I could get a more competent partner," Sherlock replied.

"I just asked about it, and let me tell you, the answer is a resounding 'no.'"

"What? Why not? This is ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed.

"Jack said that we're his best chance of finding the Ripper, so we have to work together. He said we needed to 'take a day.'"

"That's a stupid idea."

"Unless you have any better ideas... I suggest we go to the woods near my house. It's calm enough. I like it there. We can go to this little creek. Before you say anything, I don't like this either."

"I suppose we have to. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad thing to take some time out to think. Fine."

"Fine."

XxXxXxX

John sat next to Hannibal, in the passenger's seat. "Which woods are we going to?"

"Just some woods near Will Graham's home. It will be easy to find game there," Hannibal reassuringly replied. "Do not worry about not having a hunting license. I have one, and I can say I killed whatever animal we shoot today."

"Are you sure this is the best form of therapy?"

"I do believe this is for the best. It will help you get control, and feel better about your excitement over killing. There will also be time to talk about your... friend, Sherlock."

John was confused. "About... Sherlock? What about him?"

"You seem to have a... special interest in him."

"He's my best friend and nothing more," John stated firmly, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"It is completely natural to enjoy the company of other men, John."

"Er... yes. I suppose. And what will we be doing with the game that we kill?"

"I'll make a meal of it, if you'd like. Honestly, John, if you feel more of an attraction to Sherlock than other people, it's completely fine

"No, no, I know exactly what you're implying and it's not true. Are you and Will... er, together?"

"I believe Will has interest in Doctor Alana Bloom."

"Yes, but are you attracted to him?"

Hannibal pulled the car over onto the side of the road. "We're here, John. You know how to shoot a hunting rifle, correct?"

"Shouldn't be much different than an army gun or a pistol," John shrugged.

"All right. Would you like to be safe and wear some orange, or just go out in what you're wearing?"

"I don't think I need any special hunting gear."

"You should probably wear ear protection, if you're the one shooting the gun." Hannibal plucked a pair of ear plugs from his trunk and handed them to John. "We can go now, if you're ready." Hannibal pulled the rifle from his trunk and handed it to John. "Be careful. We wouldn't want to accidentally shoot anyone," Hannibal chuckled at his "joke."

John followed closely behind Hannibal, trying to avoid stepping on any twigs. John almost stumbled over a few branches on the ground. They walked in silence, save for the crunching sound of the leaves beneath their feet, stopping occasionally so Hannibal could find a deer trail. Soon, Hannibal put a hand on John's chest to stop him. "There," he whispered, pointing at a dark silhouette off in the distance. "Shoot there."

John couldn't hear what Hannibal was saying but nodded nonetheless. He brought the

gun up to his shoulder and aimed. John swallowed as he remembered the familiar shooting position from back in the army. He wondered for a moment if this was a good idea and waited for the flashback to arrive. When it didn't, he pulled the trigger.

He felt a rush of euphoria as he felt the gun push into his shoulder. The muffled sound of the shot sent chills down his spine, warming and calming his whole body. He closed his eyes, and let out a breath. He felt eerily calm, like he was meant to shoot. Everything was silent, and placid. He felt at ease, as if completely submerged in his element. He felt complete.

Hannibal clapped John on the back, jerking him out of the moment. He said something that John could only assume was something along the lines of, "I'll go check to see if you shot it." John lowered the gun to his side and tilted his head back, enjoying the view of the cotton candy clouds.

Hannibal soon returned, and motioned for John to remove his ear plugs. "I believe you shot the animal, but there wasn't much blood, and there was little brush. I couldn't track it anywhere. We have no kill to bring home today. Would you like to stay and hunt longer, or do you wish to go home?"

"I think I'd like to go back,"

"Fine. Allow me to drive you back to your room."

XxXxXxX

Sherlock enjoyed the silence of the woods. The crisp smell of pine trees mingling with the scent of aging leaves was slightly relaxing to Sherlock. It allowed him to thoroughly focus on the case at hand. He walked alongside Will, his usually swift stride regressing to a slow stroll in the afternoon sun. After a while, Will stopped and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He looked as content as ever, Sherlock noted. Sherlock let out a slow breath and looked up at the sky, shading his eyes from the bright light.

"What do you think?" Will asked, leaning against the tree.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's quiet. Refreshing. I hate noise. Most of it is unimportant. Why can't people just remain silent? Which is also interesting about you. You don't seem to feel uncomfortable when there is a period of silence,"

"I prefer silence to noise. I can concentrate better when people shut up."

Sherlock chuckled. "I agree."

"To be blunt, why are you so... irritable?"

"Irritable? Not a word I'd use to describe myself. Simply intolerant of stupidity. I value intelligence and very much so. Could also be the fact that you assume that I'm a hard shell that has no emotions. Most people do,"

"You come across that way. Surely you must realize that I am not stupid."

"Maybe not stupid. First impressions say a lot, and the first impression I received of you was that you thought very highly of yourself, even when there was nothing special about you. Maybe I was mistake. It's also possible I was correct."

"You misunderstand me, Sherlock. I do not feel like I am special. I know that I can see, and understand, things that other people cannot. I find that I have to take control of situations more often than I would like. I merely corrected your mistake. Do not take that correction as contempt for you."

"Perhaps it's not you who thinks this ability of yours is special. People outside do. Mr. Crawford seems to think it very special. When I look at you, I see a man who's tired. Tired of crime scenes. Tired of all this. You desire normalcy, not fame. It's evident when you give your seminars and refuse applause. Not a very common trait in today's society, I must say.

However, you, and others, misunderstand me. It's possible I'm not as intelligent as you might think. I'm simply very observational, and that's all. Though I like to think of myself as much more intelligent than the general public. I'm able to relate things people might not think are relevant,"

Will stood in shocked silence. Sherlock was... right. For the most part. He ran a hand through his mop-top, and said, "Yeah. That's pretty much it."

Sherlock nodded. "I would think so." He opened his mouth to say something else, but

was interrupted by what was obviously a gunshot. He felt a sting on his arm. Sherlock automatically understood that he had been shot at, and the bullet had grazed him. There was a small stream of scarlet from the wound.

"What the hell?" Will gasped. He ran over to Sherlock and grabbed his arm. "Take your coat off."

Sherlock shed his coat and scrutinized the wound with Will. "Where did it come from?"

"I don't know," Will replied. "These woods aren't open for hunting, so there shouldn't be anyone out here with a gun. I didn't see anyone in the direction the bullet came from."

Sherlock squinted into the darkening woods then shrugged. "Not of my utmost concern right now. I need to clean this up before it gets infected,"

"We can go to my house. It's not too far from here. I ah... have a couple dogs."

"I don't mind the company of pets. Let's go."

Will lead Sherlock out of the woods as fast as he could without falling over logs and brush. They soon arrived at the edge of the woods, and hopped in Will's car.

Sherlock quickly unbuttoned his shirt, folded it into a square shape, and applied pressure onto his wound.

Will felt a slight blush rise in his cheeks when he realized that Sherlock was merely clothed in his undershirt and some pants. "Sherlock, when we get to my house, would you mind putting some clothes on?"

"What for?" Sherlock said with a confused glance at Will, still holding the garment to his shoulder.

Will swallowed. He wasn't sure whether it was appropriate to say that he was uncomfortable.

"Obviously it makes you uncomfortable."

"No, no, it's not that. It's... unprofessional for you to be wearing that."

"If you say so. I'll need to borrow one of your shirts then." Sherlock noticed the slight color in Will's pale cheeks.

Will swallowed again, trying futilely to dampen his blush. "I might have some clothes that would fit you. They'd be flannel."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. They didn't speak for the rest of the drive to Will's house.


End file.
